


The Maid, the Wench, the Kraken

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aged-Up Character(s), Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Slut Shaming, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Sansa gets sent to find Theon when he's late for dinner. Guess what she finds him doing.





	The Maid, the Wench, the Kraken

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Sansa stumbles upon Robb, or Jon, or Theon getting a blowjob from one of the serving girls in a secluded corner of Winterfell. The ladylike thing to do would be to leave, but she finds she can't quite look away. Bonus if she finds herself wishing she could trade places with the serving girl."

Sansa doesn't really know why she was sent to find Theon when he didn't show up for dinner. Presumably, her mother and father thought he might actually listen to her, unlike the youngest three, but she wouldn't get in a fight with him, unlike Jon, and she wouldn't get lured into whatever mischief was making him late, unlike Robb. However she thinks they would have been less likely to send her if they knew what Theon was doing, which frankly, seems terribly obvious in hindsight.  
  
“Oh, good girl,” he groans with his eyes closed, head thrown back against the stony walls, fingers wound through a head of red – shorter and curlier than Sansa's own, and a brighter shade – hair. He must know he's late, and yet he seems in no hurry, ever so slowly moving his hips back and forth as he bucks into this poor serving girl's mouth. She performs admirably, taking him with nary a gag to be heard, although Sansa flushes when she realises that's not the sort of thing one should _admire_. She can't identify the girl really, not just from her hair, although it is rather distinctive – she thinks Marissa in the kitchens has hair like that, but so does Lucy the chambermaid. If she accuses the wrong one, she doubts they will be much pleased with her.  
  
Not that she ought to accuse anyone. No, she ought to leave right now and pretend she never saw a thing – for knowing about Theon's escapades with every wench in the damn castle is one thing, but seeing one of them is another entirely. This is not ladylike of her, crouching behind the corner so she can watch her father's ward get sucked off in the corridor. _Really, in the damn corridor? Doesn't he have a perfectly fine bedchamber of his own?_ A flush rises to Sansa's cheeks. Maybe Theon wanted someone to see.  
  
“Fuck, that's it,” Theon grunts and he moves a little faster now, loses a little control, and the serving girl gags once before she braces herself and takes it again, silent and submissive. Sansa can't tear her eyes away. She can feel a heat pooling not only beneath her skin but between her legs, and she squeezes them together to try and quell it – which has much the opposite effect. _Stop it. If Theon wishes to dishonour himself, that is his business, but there is no reason for a lady like yourself to play the voyeur._ She has no wish to rat on Theon's behaviour to her lord father, but still, she ought to go back and tell her family she couldn't find him, eat and forget the whole thing. But Theon is so handsome, he always has been, dark and tall and elegant, and yet a little dangerous too, a little wild. He's whispered to her tales of krakens seizing fair greenlander maids from their father's ships, although he's never gotten around to telling her how they end.  
  
“Deeper, deeper, go on sweetling, you can take it,” Theon's voice is rough now, low and shaky as he pulls the girl's hair to force himself down her throat, and he must be approaching the edge. The girl gags violently and Sansa almost cries out, _don't hurt her!_ But that would give her position away, and she'd probably die of the embarrassment. Besides, the woman recovers soon enough. Really, how does one become so good at this? _Practice, most likely._ The thought turns her bright red.  
  
Suddenly, something terrible happens – Theon's eyes pop open. Sansa jumps and immediately tries to hide herself behind the corner, but it's no use, she is far too recognisable, her hair shines too brightly in the low torchlight. She should just flee, like if she gets out of there soon enough Theon might think he imagined the whole thing, but he finds herself frozen to the spot. She can't even force herself not to look him in the eye. For a moment, she's afraid he'll cry out and call all of Winterfell to see what she's been doing, to laugh and mock her for her perversions, but instead he just keeps staring at her, dead in the eye, and grins.  
  
“Oh, you like that do you?” he murmurs, ostensibly talking to the wench, but his eyes are all on Sansa.

The serving girl gives a pleased hum around Theon's cock that makes him moan and chuckle, two sounds Sansa did not know you could combine but oh, the way it sounds in his voice... “Yeah you do,” he says, having never looked away from her for a moment, and Sansa bites her lip, pressing her legs closer together. “You're just aching to touch yourself, aren't you? Well go on then, love.”  
  
The wench lets out a relieved groan and then Sansa sees her hand making its way up her thigh, sneaking beneath her rough hempen skirts, and finds her own hand moving in much the same pattern. This isn't something she's done many times since she first flowered, only ever when half-asleep or half-drunk or both, and never to the point where she actually felt satisfied. She felt too guilty for anything else. A lady does not pleasure herself like a common slattern as soon as she's not being watched, but as Sansa sees this common slattern pleasure herself as she pleasures Theon, the urge to do the same is irresistable. And she is being watched. Theon is watching her, and he's smirking like a cat who got the cream at what he sees.  
  
Sansa can't really put a hand beneath her skirts, they're too heavy and have too many layers and fall down to her ankles, and she's standing up, but she finds herself kneading at her centre through the smooth velvet, feeling so hot and slick she swears she can feel the wetness against her palm. She knows Theon can see what she's doing, and she hates to imagine how smug he must be right now. It makes her angry with him. Maybe this is why he and Jon fight so much. She can't help but wish the positions were reversed though, that she was on her knees instead of that serving wench, so she could push her skirts up and fill her cunt with her fingers. She wishes she was on her knees sucking Theon's cock. _Oh no._  
  
“What a little slut you are,” Theon says, and Sansa, still red and ashamed, feels a mite indignant as well. _Don't call her that!_ she wants to say, although it might make a hypocrite of her, since she just dismissed the woman as a common slattern. However Theon must be more of a hypocrite, since he is the one getting off in the common slattern's mouth, so he could at least show a little gratitude. However Sansa quickly gathers he's not really talking to the wench at all. “Dirty, cock hungry whore. You'd love sucking me off right in the middle of the hall.”  
  
Sansa's eyes go wide as she feebly thrusts against her hand, aching for a pleasure she is denied. _I would. Gods help me, I would._ The wench makes a mildly confused noise, noticing Theon's slip of the tongue but maybe thinking she misheard, and Theon, suddenly looking a little alarmed, tugs her hair hard. “Well go on, finish me off. I've got a dinner to get to.”  
  
_Oh, now he remembers._ Sansa almost rolls her eyes. But Theon loses all control then, fucking hard and rough into this woman's mouth, and Sansa is worried until she sees – beneath the hempen skirts, the shadow of a hand moving faster, and she hears little whines of pleasure between the gags. Sansa blinks. Really, does the serving girl enjoy being treated so roughly? When she's touched herself to thoughts of her future husband, Sansa has always imagined him as gentle, soft and kind. But perhaps she would have liked it more, would have brought herself to completion, if she hadn't?  
  
Theon groans, holding the woman's head in place as his hips still and he shudders. Sansa knows what's happening. _He's spilling his seed. He's spending in her mouth, giving it to her to–_ “Swallow,” he instructs, and Sansa hears a loud gulping sound before the obedient woman moves her head, letting her finally _see_ Theon's cock and – it's not gone soft yet, it's big and hard and red and Sansa has to bite her lip not to moan aloud when she thinks about it inside her – her mouth, her cunt, anywhere. “Good girl,” Theon croons, stroking the serving wench's hair softly, finally looking at her again. Sansa feels a rush of strikingly irrational jealousy. “Very good girl.”  
  
“Thank you, m'lord,” giggles the wench, and Sansa notes how he does not offer to help her finish off as well. Sansa doesn't think she'd stand for that, but she supposes a serving girl doesn't really have the power to go about making demands of a highborn man. Still, she seems far from displeased. “Will I see you again after the feast?”  
  
_It's no feast, it's just dinner,_ Sansa thinks, but the difference might be a little unclear to the commonfolk. “Hmm, maybe,” says Theon, which frankly is not much of an answer. But then, he looks back up, catches her eye over this girl's shoulder. “Might not, though. Meaning no offense to you of course, sweetling, it's just – I may have other matters to attend to.”  
  
Sansa's eyes go wide, and then she takes what she thinks is the only wise course of action available:  
  
She runs for it.


End file.
